


From the Bench

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Being Stupid, Benched, Careless Mistakes, Detroit Red Wings, Gen, Stanley Cup Playoffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendan begins to realize just how severe the consequences of playing the puck from the bench in the game against Montreal are when Babcock tells him he's benched for the opening night of the playoffs. Rated teen for some hockey player language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Bench

“I’d need a long stick to score from the bench.”—Petr Klima

From the Bench

“You won’t be playing in the opening game against Tampa.” Mike Babcock stared across his desk at Brendan Smith with enough intensity to power the greater Detroit area for a week, and Brendan felt his stomach jolt as if it had been struck by a volt of electricity. 

“What?” Brendan’s incredulous tone suggested that his coach had abruptly taken to conversing in a foreign language but his trembling hands seemed to understand the meaning of Babcock’s sentence well enough. 

“I’m sitting you for Marchenko.” Babcock’s brusque voice brooked no argument, and he made no effort to soften the impact of his statement. One thing you could say about Babs, Brendan thought rather morbidly, was once he called you into his office to behead you, he didn’t draw out proceedings with an opportunity to appeal before the ax fell. 

“Why?” Brendan asked through numb lips even though he had a sinking suspicion as to the answer. 

“Why do you think?” Babcock had assumed the acerbic manner he always did whenever he judged that Brendan had once again said or done something monumentally stupid like hitting rock bottom and starting to dig. 

“Because I swatted the puck from the bench.” Brendan massaged his temples, suddenly longing for an aspirin. “It was a murky call.” 

“A murky call?” demanded Babcock, shaking his scowling head as if to dislodge an irksome fly. “It was the equivalent of a football player on the sidelines charging into the middle of action to make a tackle and somehow thinking it was going to be allowed! That gets called every God damn time, Smitty.” 

Trying to backtrack as he realized that he had stepped into a dragon’s lair, Brendan muttered, “Look, Coach, I’m sorry the penalty was called and Montreal scored, but it’s not my fault.” 

“When you’re mature enough to take responsibility for your actions and to stop making boneheaded decisions, especially in game’s where this team’s playoff fate is on the line, I might find room for you in the lineup.” The contempt etched into Babcock’s face screamed that for the millionth time Brendan was being compared to some lofty, invisible but somehow omnipresent, Red Wings standard and declared wanting. Red Wings were supposed to be like Pavel Datsyuk, who never made excuses and always talked about how he wanted to improve—although the latter was kind of impossible given that he was the Magic Man and already pretty much perfect but he was always given extra credit for trying to do the impossible. “Until then, enjoy the popcorn in the press box.” 

“This isn’t fair,” protested Brendan, despite the fact that he probably should have learned by now—because, no matter what the media or Babcock might imagine on the contrary, he wasn’t as dumb as a stump—that Babcock’s definition of unfair was light years different than the average player’s. 

“It wouldn’t be fair to this team to not use the best guys possible in the playoffs.” Babcock’s jaw was tightening; Brendan could see and practically hear it if his ears weren’t developing an active fantasy life. “My job is to play whoever gives this team the best chance of winning.” 

“I played all season.” To conceal how quivery his hands were, Brendan tucked them into the pockets of his pants. “You can’t just bench me for the playoffs.” 

“Watch me,” Babcock snapped, “and if you eliminated some of your terrible turnovers and sloppy passes during the regular season, you might be playing in the playoffs.” 

Brendan swallowed, recognizing with what felt like a knife jabbed into his intestines that Babcock’s Carolina post-game observation about Marchenko being smart and rarely making mistakes being as much a snub as if Babcock had concluded with “unlike Smith.” 

“You’ll have to earn your spot in the lineup again, Smitty.” Babcock’s face announced louder than words that this debate was over, much like Brendan’s chances of playing in the post-season, since Brendan already knew that Marchenko wouldn’t forfeit his position in the lineup by playing the puck from bench. 

At least, Brendan figured dismally as he spun on his heel to leave the office, he wouldn’t have a humiliating moment like challenging Chara to a fight on national television this year. No, this time around, he had outdone himself by having his moment of shame before the Wings even clinched a playoff berth, because apparently why wait to embarrass yourself? 

Before Brendan could finish twisting around, Babcock added, cold and immobile as a glacier, “By the way, playing the puck from the bench during practice, which looks a hell of a lot like challenging me on the very thing I’m benching for you, isn’t going to help you get back in the lineup, so drop the rebellious attitude before next practice.” 

“That was just a joke, Coach.” A joke Babcock hadn’t even been intended to see, but obviously had and clearly found as humorous as a funeral. No doubt, Brendan’s ill-timed attempt at levity would be added to the laundry list of Smith errors that Babcock kept on file in his brain. 

“Then don’t joke about the same stupid shit that got you benched in the first place.” Babcock shaped each syllable into a whip that cut into Brendan. “It’s not a laughing matter. Show me you’re serious about playing smart, Smitty, or you won’t play at all.”


End file.
